Dark Before the Dawn
by S. Faith
Summary: If only Rebecca's summer house party had gone a little differently... Book universe, EOR.


**Dark Before the Dawn**

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 6,310

Rating: M / R

Summary: If only the summer house party had gone a little differently… **Book universe**, _EOR_, in case you're wondering why Rebecca isn't a lesbian.

Disclaimer: Am clearly mad in manner of mad person.

Notes: Obviously the universe belongs to Helen Fielding and I am quite the brazen squatter in it. However, must credit a particularly fabulous turn of phrase to its source: Richard's description of Rebecca as a 'deranged social engineer' is verbatim from _EOR_ (Chapter 10). It is too perfect not to have used it.

* * *

_Saturday 12 July_

_Gloucestershire_

The room was even more miserable at night than during the day. The horrible toothpaste-green walls seemed to glow radioactively under the amber light of the lamp; the springs of the cot-like single bed creaked even more loudly as she sat on it in the quiet of the evening, blue dress brushing against her calves as she did. The silence of the country setting almost seemed oppressive, and Bridget secretly longed for all of the nighttime sounds of London, the traffic, trains, sirens and drunken passers-by, because at least then she knew she wasn't alone in the world.

She felt completely and utterly alone here.

When Bridget compared her last stay at this estate (in the beautiful, swanky room with its luscious, soft bed and private bath) to this stay (in the refurbished servants' quarters), Bridget wanted to cry. When she remembered the last time she and Mark had slept together had been during that last stay (in that room, in that bed), she burst uncontrollably into tears.

She shouldn't have come. She shouldn't have. What else had she been expecting but a weekend of absolute torture? She wrapped her arms around herself and wept some more, tears streaming down her cheeks at the memory of Mark and Rebecca dancing, Mark at the head of the table, Rebecca always wanting to be near him and touch him…. Who could blame her, really?

She envied Shaz even that most awkward of rock and roll dances.

They'd looked so lovely together, she had to admit; watching Mark and Rebecca interacting with the other guests was like watching royalty hold court with their subjects. Taking the metaphor a step further, she realised she and Shaz were but the scullery maids. She thought morbidly that she really did belong in the servants' quarters, cheaply and garishly decorated, uncomfortably furnished, in the middle of all this luxury and beauty. It was, she thought, an apt comparison.

Maybe she and Shazzer could escape before breakfast, before having to face a freshly post-shag Rebecca, who would undoubtedly find some way to gloat about it in that subtle stinging way she had. Bridget would be able to bear that even less than anything she'd seen so far.

She didn't know how long she'd spent in blubbering self-pity when she heard a quiet knock at the door, and very quickly composed her features, wiped her face dry. Clearing her throat, she called, "Yes, who is it?"

"Bridge, it's me. Sharon. Can I come in?"

She felt a little disappointed despite knowing realistically it would not have been Mark. "Hold on."

She rose from the horrible foam-topped cot and made her way to the door, unlocking it and cracking it open just wide enough to meet her friend's eyes. Sharon's face, which had not had a happy expression on it to begin with, fell even further, and she pushed her way into the room.

"Oh, Christ, Bridge," she said morosely. "I'm so sorry."

Bridget shrugged, resuming her seat on the edge of the bed, feeling tears in her eyes again. Willing herself not to cry again, she focused on her hands, which were wringing together in a fiddly way. "It isn't your fault. I should have known what I was getting into when we decided to come here. It's just so hard to—" A sob escaped her throat before she could stop it.

Bridget felt a strong, sisterly arm around her shoulders. Shaz didn't say a word, which was really rather unlike her. Bridget appreciated the comfort, leaning into her friend for a better embrace. "Magda told me once," Shaz said softly after a few moments, "that people's relationships were often a mystery to those outside them."

Through her tears, Bridget laughed, then explained, "Sorry. She told me the same thing once too." She didn't say about whom Magda had been referring; Bridget would have loved to have had Jude there too, but the whole Jude/Richard getting-married fiasco (and the fact that Shaz (and by extension, Bridget) was not speaking to Jude) was a touchy subject at present.

Shaz momentarily squeezed tighter then continued talking. "I never did quite understand you and Mark, but you seemed happy, and he seemed nice enough, _normal_ enough, despite Tory leanings." They both made a sound of amusement. "He was stupid to chuck you for no reason at all, though," said Shaz a little gruffly, after a few more silent moments. "That makes him a mentally-deficient fuckwit and you're probably better off."

She knew what Shaz was trying to do, and while she appreciated the effort, it felt wrong for Shaz to slag him off in such a way when Bridget still loved him despite all efforts to convince herself she was over him. "I just want him to be happy," said Bridget. "If that happiness is with Rebecca—"

"Bridget, I'm going to gag if you complete that sentence," said Shaz dangerously.

"But if he wasn't meant to be with me, he still deserves happiness," she said sadly. "He's a good man, he really is. I guess I wasn't meant to be anything more to him than—" She sighed, cringing with the memory of Jude and Sharon's prediction so many months ago. "—a 'just for now' girl."

It was the sudden sound of hard rubber scuffing against concrete that drew their attention to the door. To Bridget's complete horror, Mark was standing in the doorway, practically filling the frame; Shazzer must have left the door ajar when she'd come in. She had no way of knowing how much he'd heard. His features lent no insight into his thoughts, which wasn't a surprise when it came to Mark but it was especially inconvenient at present: He looked distraught, disconsolate, yet his eyes were bright and focused.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he said in a low, controlled manner, but made no move to leave.

"Mark," said Bridget, though no sound escaped her throat.

"I'd like to speak to you in private, Bridget," he said, not looking away from her except to glance fleetingly at Shaz.

"I don't think Bridget—" began Shaz defensively.

"No, it's all right," Bridget said, suddenly finding her voice, and it was stronger than she expected; she simultaneously turned to look at her friend, giving Shaz her best _Really, it's all right_ face. With overly expressive eyes, Shaz queried, _Are you sure?_ Bridget nodded imperceptibly.

Shaz rose from Bridget's side and headed for the door, pausing to look up meaningfully (and a little threateningly) at Mark as she passed by him to return to her own room. Mark stepped in, closing the door behind him and setting something he was carrying down and out of the way; the silence, the discomfort filled the small space to bursting.

For a man who had requested to speak to her in private, he seemed to have nothing to say. She shifted on her seat on the bed, the metal coils groaning with an ugly sound. She avoided meeting his eyes as long as she could, and when she did, his gaze in return was penetrating; they simply remained frozen in place, eyes fixed on one another, for many moments. He broke the gaze and looked away, then began pacing with measured strides like the bloody barrister he was. She suddenly felt like she was on trial.

"I like to think," he began, "that I'm a good judge of character."

He stopped pacing, stopped speaking, as if to consider his next words, thrusting his hands into his pockets. She was bewildered. Where was this going?

"Occasionally though," he continued, pacing once more, "I put my faith in people I shouldn't, and fail to trust the ones I should." He ceased moving and turned to look at her again; only then did his features soften. "I don't know if I would ever have enough time, if there are even enough words in the world, to express how very, very sorry I am."

"How sorry you are?" she echoed stupidly.

"You tried to warn me. I thought you were overreacting, being unfair," he said. She could say nothing in response, instead waited to see what exactly he was apologising for. "I thought she was being friendly, and I was keen to be liked by one of your friends. I never got the impression the usual Dating War Command thought a whole lot of me."

She could only stare, occasionally blinking, as the meaning started to sink in. Rebecca.

"Mark—"

"Please," he interrupted sharply. "Let me finish. Let me tell you what happened tonight."

………

It had been a long day, helping Rebecca with her weekend house party, and there was nothing more Mark was looking forward to than a long, hot shower and a good night's sleep. As he ascended the stairs his thoughts inevitably were drawn to his last stay here with Bridget, and he wondered if he'd have the same room, wondered how difficult it would be to spend the night in there with nothing but his memories. Rebecca had kept the two of them too busy earlier to show him his room, had had someone bring his things upstairs, and only now, with her usual and sometimes wearing exuberance, was she taking him there, her hand possessively on his forearm.

"Well! Here we are!" she said with a tinkling laugh, reached for the knob, twisted and pushed it open. She walked inside, spun so that her silky hair floated briefly around her, landing in a cascade on her shoulders.

He furrowed his brow as he stepped inside, looking around at what must have been the master suite. In fact— "Rebecca. I thought this was your room."

"Mark," she said, coming back towards him, closing the door behind him. "You don't have to be coy with me. We've been dancing around each other for months. I'm attracted to you, you're obviously attracted to me… no time like the present."

He saw his overnight bag sitting on the bureau alongside hers, saw the corner of the duvet pulled down invitingly.

"Rebecca, I'm afraid you have the wrong idea."

"Do I?" she asked in a breathy voice, then asked again, an octave lower, "Do I?" She came up near to him, running her perfectly manicured fingernails over his cotton shirt, turning her eyes up to him seductively. It struck him as rehearsed and insincere.

"Yes you do," he said firmly, stepping back. Bridget's words echoed in his head from Rebecca's last house party in February, when they'd had the catastrophic falling out about St John and the snog; his stomach turned leaden as he remembered scoffing at Bridget's accusation of Rebecca's machinations as a 'bewildering catalogue of Chinese whispers.' _Rebecca was planning this even then,_ he thought, _master manipulator that she is._ He thought back even further to the Courcheval ski mini-break, to every little doubt she'd placed in his head, every wheel she'd set in motion and every contrived move she'd made in front of the two of them then in front of Bridget after their split. Rebecca had probably planned her strike from the very moment she'd learned Bridget had a boyfriend of position and status, had probably introduced herself to him at Barky Thompson's drinks party for that intent. He was disgusted; disgusted that she could be so devious, disgusted that he'd allowed himself to be so blind to the truth, and especially disgusted that he'd had so little faith in Bridget. He strode over and grabbed the handle of his bag, sweeping it off the bureau. "I need to be anywhere but in this room with you."

"Mark." She pouted in a manner she presumably thought was irresistible. "Where will you go? There are no available rooms. Stay here with me. I'll make it worth your while."

He said nothing in return. He did not want to dignify the suggestive comment with an acknowledgment. He simply stalked out of the room and didn't look back, not even when he reached the front portico and descended the stone stairs. He was thankful he encountered no one on his way out.

He was intent on heading for his car and driving back to London, eager to get the acrid taste of deception out of his mouth, when he spotted a figure emerging from a room in the cottage, then moving across the lawn. He squinted, realised it was Bridget's friend Sharon, and watched to see what she was doing.

She knocked on the door of the adjacent room. Within a minute or two, Bridget answered, allowing her friend passage. They retreated into the room, and Sharon did not close the door behind herself. He found himself drawn to the open door, to the light, to the woman he knew was in there.

………

Stunned seemed an inadequate word for how Bridget was feeling after Mark finished saying his piece. Mark had _not_ been with Rebecca all this time? No romance, no sex… and had only befriended Rebecca in the first place to feel a part of her own self-styled 'urban family'? She did not know what to say. It had seemed to obvious, so clear, that he had chosen a prettier, more self-confident, thinner woman than herself. But he had not.

"I never wanted to split with you," he said after a moment. "I was so confused and hurt when you accused me of things I hadn't done while it appeared you were unfaithful to me. I foolishly—_stupidly_—" She was very aware he was using Sharon's word. "—did not realise the deceit Rebecca had so artfully woven. I… well." He cleared his throat. "I don't want to have to beg, but I will if it means you'll think about… us again."

She felt like she dare not look at him for the guilt that suffused through her. How wrong it had been of her to assume the worst of him knowing Rebecca as she did, despite the alarms she'd tried to sound for Mark. How sorry she was.

"Did you say something?" asked Mark, his voice gravelly.

She did not recall speaking, but she raised her eyes to him and verbalised her thoughts: "I'm sorry."

He looked ashen, unsteady. "Oh," he said quietly. "Oh."

In an instant she realised her mistake and leapt to her feet. "Oh, Mark," she said, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly. "Not 'I'm sorry' as in 'no'—I'm sorry for _doubting _you."

He stood there, unresponsive for a moment until apparently finally comprehending her meaning. When he did he raised his arms and enfolded her in them, pressing his nose into her hair, her cheek against his chest, his hand holding the back of her head.

"I never wanted to split with you, either," Bridget continued in a weak, muffled voice. "Bloody Rebecca."

To her surprise he chuckled, then said in a very throaty voice, "I love you, Bridget. Haven't stopped."

Tears plopped down and landed on his shirt as she blinked then closed her eyes, tightening her arms around him. "I love you too. Haven't stopped." She then pulled back to look at him. "Forgive me?"

He laughed, raising a hand to sweep his thumb across her cheek to dry her tears. His hand lingered to cradle her face tenderly. "I could ask the same of you."

She smirked, tears threatening again. When she really thought about it, at the heart of it there was nothing to forgive except for falling prey to that evil woman's plots. "I think we can safely say 'forgiveness all around'," she said, then added with a furrowed brow, "except for that bloody cow, though."

He abruptly laughed again. "God, I've missed you," he said, grinning, drawing his fingers down over her cheek, over her lower lip and chin. As he did this, as if reacquainting himself with the feel of her skin, his smile faded, his eyes piercing into her soul. Huskily he added, "So very much."

She had somehow managed to forget what a spell he could put her under, and could only close her eyes, drop her head back and part her lips slightly as he lowered his head to kiss her. She drew in a quick, almost startled breath as he covered her mouth with his own, pulling her tightly to him.

Possessive and voracious were his kisses, greedy and restless were his hands, roaming down her back then over her bottom and hips as if to find entry to touch bare skin. She'd missed him too, as her soft sighs attested, as her own hands reassured.

He reared his head back suddenly, looking over his shoulder towards the direction of the bed, and in an instant he seemed to realise the pit of ugliness he had landed in, Formica headboard, metal spring bed, cheap wood panelling, mint green paint, and lamps made of lurid ochre ceramic. "I cannot believe it," he said, his temper rising quickly. "Putting you in this awful room like some third-rate citizen… when you're miles above her and her kind, and always will be. If it wasn't so late, I wasn't so tired," he said, his tone softening a bit, "and I didn't want you as much as I do, I would take you back to London and ravish you in surroundings worthy of you." He bent down to kiss her again. "But…" he concluded, whispering in her ear, "I guess that single bed will have to do."

"If you insist—" she began before he stole her breath away once more with a kiss, his fingers crumpling the fabric of her rayon dress to raise the hem higher and higher until she could feel his fingertips brush against her arse. She made a soft sound as his hands slipped between her pants and her bottom and his fingers curved around to cup each buttock.

"Oh my God," she said abruptly, breaking away from the kiss. "Take your clothes off right now, Mark Darcy."

"No time to waste," he said, pushing her pants down over her hips, claiming her mouth again.

The man made an excellent point. Quickly she undid his button and fly as he toed off his shoes and socks, and his trousers dropped to the floor as he stepped forward, walking her backwards towards the bed, not letting her from his arms, abandoning her pants in the middle of the floor. Not breaking the kiss for a moment, they lowered to sit on the edge of the bed, then fell back onto the mattress (such as it was), quickly turning so she was beneath him. His hand went to the waistband of his boxers, and he shifted a little in order to get them down over his hips.

The increasingly scary noises coming from the overtaxed springs should have been the clue that the bed did not have the structural integrity to hold two adult humans intent on writhing around, but the creaking and squeaking went unheeded, and understandably so. In an instant the whole of the foam pad went crashing through the frame, landing them squarely on the floor, the corners of the sheets sticking up and over the edge of the frame at odd angles around them, enveloping them like a bizarre wonton wrapper.

They froze in place, both of them, dumbfounded by what had just happened. Then she started to laugh. She couldn't control herself. Soon he was laughing too; the both of them were laughing so hard they could barely breathe. The whole scenario was ludicrous, but she couldn't imagine laughing at it with anyone but Mark.

As they regained their respective breaths, he said tenderly, "You really are the light of my dreary old life." He kissed her quite thoroughly again, before seeming to remember they were trapped by the bed frame and in a pouch of cheap cotton sheets.

He managed to stand (righting his boxers in quite a noble fashion despite the obvious strain to the front of them) and help her to her feet as well as guiding her out of the metal death trap. Miraculously they had completely cleared the frame, though it did not keep Mark from concernedly inspecting both of them for scratches. He extracted the foam mattress, sheets, pillows and all, and set it back down on the floor in an unkempt heap.

"Well." He then turned and took her hand. "The bed doesn't really matter," he said quietly, gazing down at her, pulling her close again. "It's who you share it with that counts."

She smiled just as he lithely bent down, pulled the hem of her dress up over her head and off.

………

Having only three inches of foam between her and the floor, Bridget expected the morning to bring an aching back or a stiff neck, but as she opened her eyes against the hazy sun coming in through the gap in the drapes, she felt neither of those things, only felt happiness as the night came back to her in a giddy rush. Mark was here with her; more importantly, _wanted_ to be here with her, not supposedly-perfect Rebecca. She was pressed up against him as the single-sized rectangle of foam did not permit side-by-side slumber, though she hardly cared. She'd take him over a proper pillow any day.

She raised her head up from its place on Mark's chest and knit her brow; from the angle of Mark's head (his pillow having inconveniently skittered out from under him) she thought he would be miserably in pain when he woke. He chose that moment to open his eyes, catching her looking at him, and he grinned then started to laugh. "Some things don't change," he murmured.

"I had a legitimate reason for looking at you," she said defensively. "Your pillow's gone on walkabout."

He rolled his head slightly to the side. "So it has," he said, then lifted his hand to sweep his fingers along the floor until they met the wayward pillow. He then slipped the cushion beneath his head. "Hadn't noticed, to be honest. Far too distracted."

"Oh?"

His fingers swept over her bottom and hips. "Yes."

"Ah," she said, smiling. They each stretched forward, bridging the distance to meet for a kiss.

When he rested his head back onto the pillow, he looked down to her through his lashes. "I'm not an emotional man," Mark began.

"Really?" Bridget said teasingly. "Hadn't noticed."

He pursed his lips. "I just don't want to be accused of being maudlin."

"Maudlin? For shagging me on the floor?"

"No. For saying four and a half months without you was four and a half months too many," he admitted, his tone serious.

She smiled, feeling tears of happiness again in her eyes. Not maudlin. Never maudlin. Sweet, kind, lovely, sexy and smart, but never maudlin.

"And you are much, much more to me than 'just for now'."

She felt the blush rise to her skin. "God. How much of that did you hear last night?"

"Enough," he said. "Enough to know that Sharon is a good friend to you… and that I'm more in love with you than ever."

She pushed herself up a bit to more easily kiss him. "If you don't cut that sort of talk out," she said in a low tone, "we'll never be able to escape before breakfast."

"Maybe I don't care," he said between kisses. "Maybe I'd love to show up at breakfast, or lunch, holding your hand and making it very clear to Rebecca that her web-weaving was for naught."

Bridget giggled, then succumbed to his expert touch, his tender kisses.

Afterwards, dozing in and out of sleep with an odd sense of timelessness, Bridget reflected on how fantastic it would be to show up for lunch very obviously back together. The look on Rebecca's face would be priceless. A smile curled on her lips and she tightened her arm momentarily around Mark's waist. As she did, in reflex, his arms tightened around her.

The next thing she knew all hell seemed to be breaking loose.

"_What_—?" shrieked an hysterical voice. "I cannot be_lieve_—!"

Bridget's eyes flew open, head jerking up, at the sound of a third voice in the room. Mark was obviously wide awake in that same instant, pulling the sheet up over Bridget's bare back, his voice booming out, "How _dare_ you come in like this!"

Rebecca. Rebecca, who had exploded through the door Mark had clearly forgotten to lock when he came in, who had now found the two of them very, _very_ obviously back together. Bridget felt the entirety of her skin crimson. Mark, head as cool as ever, reached for the bedspread, and covered himself with it as he rose to his feet. With as much dignity as she could muster, Bridget wrapped the sheet around herself and sat up, wishing she could sink into the floor.

"That you would do this to me under my very own—" Rebecca carried on, her voice high-pitched and insane, looking around the room with wild eyes until her gaze landed on the bed frame. She stopped suddenly as if someone had cut off her air supply, staring madly at the destroyed metal structure, until she wailed, "Oh my God, the bed! _You broke the bed?!_"

It was movement in the periphery of her vision that caused her to look at the door, and Bridget realised that a crowd had gathered on the lawn. Judging from the unfettered looks of amusement on their faces, they had all heard what Rebecca had just said. _God knows how much they've seen_, she thought morbidly.

"It wasn't exactly wrought iron," said Mark with cold fury. "How dare you accuse me of doing _anything_ to you when we were never together except for anywhere but in your delusional head." He strode closer to Rebecca; amazing how dignified he could manage to look even with nothing but a coverlet wrapped around his waist, and boy, could his voice carry. "How dare you make such an accusation when it was your meddling that caused us to split in the first place."

Bridget had never seen Rebecca look so utterly gobsmacked.

"Now get out," he said with finality, "and leave us in peace."

Bridget heard a loud whoop from the crowd on the lawn; Rebecca turned in a flash to look outside and see the guests, standing there and watching the show. Flinging her hair haughtily back over her shoulder, she turned back to shoot a poisonous look at Bridget before returning her gaze to Mark. The placating smile on her face told Bridget that she somehow thought she could still salvage her chances with Mark.

"Fine; fine," Rebecca said with an overly calm voice, lifting her chin in an attempt at propriety. "You've made your _choice_ quite clear."

"There was never a 'choice'," he said. "You never entered my thoughts in that regard."

"Well," she sniffed icily. "I wouldn't want a man with such low standards, anyway."

"That's a pity," said Mark, "as that's the only sort of man who would likely have _you_."

At that, a veritable cheer rose from the guests on the lawn. Rebecca turned bright red, turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, pushing her way past Louise Barton-Foster and Giles Benwick. The last thing Bridget saw before Mark closed the door was Giles grinning madly, pumping his fist as if the victory were his own.

Mark turned back to Bridget and at his tender look she erupted into tears, all of the emotions she was feeling coming to the surface at once. He dropped to his knees and took her in his arms. "There, there, darling. It's all right."

"I'm fine," she said, throwing her arms around his neck, feeling the tears slide down her cheeks as she buried her face in his neck. "_Better_ than fine."

………

Since they did not have a private bath, Mark thought it best that they depart immediately without washing up, though she really wished she could have even a few minutes under a steady stream of hot water; the hard floor had gotten to her more than she'd thought. "And I'm starving," she said with a pout.

"I'll take you to a pub the next town over," he said. "I have no intention of accepting anything further from her."

Bridget smiled. He wasn't saying it, but convening to the table with all of those witnesses to their private sideshow was not something either were looking forward to. She imagined that Mark would not be looking much forward to work on Monday for much the same reason.

"The sooner we leave, the sooner we can get back to London," he said. She nodded. The rest of Sunday was stretched out before them, and she wanted to spend all of it with Mark in private.

After dressing and grooming as best they could, Mark gathered up their bags and they headed outside. To Bridget's surprise, Sharon was sitting on a low stone wall just outside, smoking a cigarette, her packed bag on the ground beside her. She looked to the pair of them, grinning.

"Shaz?" she asked. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to leave," she said, stubbing the butt end out on the stone wall, "but you have the car keys." She turned to engage her eyes with Mark's. "Hello, Mark," she said politely.

"Sharon," he said in return. "Nice to see you."

Sharon blinked. "Nice to see you too."

"We're leaving as well," said Mark, stating the obvious. "Care to join us for lunch?"

"Um, uh, sure," she said, clearly too taken aback to refuse.

"Great. I'll just take these things to the car."

Sharon watched him walk away. Once he was out of earshot, she turned to Bridget, still looking amazed. "He's not totally furious with me?" she said.

"Nope."

"Not after what he must have heard me say?"

"Nope," she said again. "In fact, he quite agreed with your assessment."

Shaz smirked. "Okay, perhaps he's not a mentally-deficient fuckwit after all."

Laughing, Bridget dug into her handbag for the car keys, which she tossed to Shaz. They then headed towards the large circular drive where all of the cars were parked.

"So that's what the crash was then, hm?"

"What?"

"The bed breaking."

"_Jesus_," said Bridget. "You heard that?"

"That wasn't all I heard," Sharon said, waggling her eyebrows. "Walls're kinda thin."

"Shut up," said Bridget, feeling herself go scarlet all over again but grinning nonetheless as she playfully punched Sharon on the shoulder.

As they reached the car, Sharon asked, "I'm not going to be intruding on your reunion lunch?"

"Not at all," said Bridget. "Besides, he really wants to be liked by my friends." She sighed. "It's the reason he tried to be friends with Rebecca in the first place."

"Oh, poor Mark. How could he have known he was throwing himself in the path of a viper?"

"Bridget?" called out Mark, standing beside his own vehicle.

"Be right there," she called back, then said to Sharon in a pleading tone, "He really is a good m—"

"I know," interrupted Sharon with a grin. "Go on, get in. I'll follow."

………

They found a little pub open for lunch in a village a few miles down the road, and with a basket of fish and chips and a pint each, they had a very enjoyable meal together. Bridget, however, could not resist reaching under the table and putting her hand on his knee. It was like she was trying to reassure herself that he was really there.

He placed his hand over hers, turning to her with a smile.

"So, oh my _God_, you _have_ to hear what happened over breakfast," said Sharon with unholy glee.

Bridget and Mark turned to look at Sharon at the same time. Conspiratorially, Sharon leaned forward over the table, and started to speak.

"Everyone shows up for breakfast, and it becomes _really_ obvious _really_ quickly that the two of you are the only ones who aren't showing. Giles, bless his nerdy little heart, asks Rebecca where you are, Mark." She stopped to take the end off of a chip. "And Rebecca has the nerve to say, 'Oh, he had to leave during the night on an emergency,' to which Giles pipes up, 'But his car's on the drive.'"

"He didn't!" said Bridget, grinning. Good ol' Giles.

"He did. I admit, it was a bit evil of me to prod her on, but torturing that jellyfisher must be done at every given opportunity," she said with another smirk. "So I say, 'I guess the emergency must have been in Bridget's room' as I look pointedly to the empty chair beside me."

Bridget squealed a "No!" just as she caught Mark trying to suppress a smile.

"Yes! Well, at _that_, Rebecca flushes purple, stands up from the table so quickly the antique chair falls over, hitting a sideboard table and shattering a crystal vase full of flowers. She then flees the dining room and runs out of the house. We all know where she's going and all follow because we _know_ it's gonna be good… and we get there just in time to see her fling open the door."

Bridget covered her mouth with both hands. Good God, they _had_ seen everything.

"That was a thing of beauty, Mark," said Sharon, with what sounded like admiration in her voice. "No one's ever stood up to Rebecca quite that way, and it was high time someone did."

Mark grinned; Bridget could just see the faintest tinge of pink cover his skin. Maybe now he'd believe that her friends didn't dislike him. "Thank you."

Sharon took a draw off of her beer, then said, "I have to ask, Mark." She set the pint down with a thud. "If you weren't going out with that bloody cow, why did you spend so much time with her?"

Bridget cringed inside, but Mark merely turned to Bridget, and spoke to her like Sharon was not there. "I only went out on Rebecca's invitation so often because I hoped to see you there."

She smiled, feeling relieved, then leaned forward to kiss him.

"Bridget!" came a woman's voice; for a panicked moment, she thought Rebecca had followed them to exact murderous revenge. She turned to see that it was instead Jude, with Richard standing slightly behind her. Jude's pumps clicked against the floor as she ran over to where they were seated, and threw her arms around Bridget, hugging her, apparently forgetting that they were currently not on speaking terms.

"I am _so_ happy for you," said Jude, her voice tight with emotion.

"Why'd you leave your new best friend?" said Shaz coldly.

"Everyone left, rather like rats abandoning a sinking ship," said Richard, surprising Bridget. "Couldn't stand that deranged social engineer, anyway."

Sharon blinked, fought a smile, then outright laughed along with everyone else.

Jude asked, looking like she was bracing herself for rejection, "May we join you?"

Sharon and Bridget exchanged looks. She certainly didn't like not being on good terms with Jude, but they still had doubts about Richard. After the events of last night and today, though, Bridget wondered if maybe Richard wasn't all he seemed to be, either. It seemed Sharon was thinking the same.

"Absolutely," said Sharon and Bridget in tandem, smiling.

Beaming, Jude claimed the empty seat, and Richard pulled one over from another table, then went to the bar to order their lunch.

………

Mark picked up the bill for lunch and before long they were off in their separate cars in a caravan of sorts to London. Without a word Mark headed straight for Bridget's tiny, crowded little flat, and she smiled, because he always did prefer her flat to his cavernous home. _Bed doesn't matter, after all_, she reminded herself happily. _It's who you share it with._

As they entered her place, Mark said, "I was kind of wondering about that."

He was staring pointedly at the plastic-covered gaping hole in the wall.

"Would rather not talk about that now," she said resignedly, then added, "though you might be able to bring your legal might down on Gary."

"Gary?" he said.

"The builder. Magda's crap builder."

"Ah, yes," he said thoughtfully. "The discussion in the bedroom. The infill extension."

Bridget pursed her lips. "Yes."

He chuckled. "You don't have to look like that," he said as he took her into his arms. "We'll get it taken care of, because I can't bear to think of spending as much time here as I intend to looking at a big ugly sheet of polythene. For now…" He bent to kiss her. "I need to get thoroughly reacquainted with your flat. Let's start with the bathroom. I'll need you to remind me where all of your little soaps and shampoos are. Then we can start in on the bedroom."

She smiled lopsidedly; how much things had changed in the space of one day, how the misery and heartache of the night before seemed a million years ago. How much she had missed him. "Let's get this plan into action straightaway, then."

Bridget had forgotten, too, what an excellent planner he was.

_The end._


End file.
